


Punt

by polite_warning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, M/M, Rape Roleplay, Roleplay, Scene Gone Wrong, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polite_warning/pseuds/polite_warning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes sex ends in a bang and a whimper. [Dom!John/sub!Lock]</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**Warning: Contains non-con elements within the confines of a consensual relationship and roleplaying.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punt

“Now…did you really think you were going to get away from me?” John purred into his struggling captive’s ear as he snapped the second cuff closed, leaving him helplessly chained to the headboard. John’s plaything had his arms stretched out from his body like the Vitruvian man, the victim’s t-shirt taut against his lovely chest with the strain. John’s bed was perfect for tying a man up; faded gold bars made up the headboard, each about 20 centimetres apart, and of course small enough around that he could easily latch cuffs onto them. Sherlock’s bed was not perfect for tying a man up; in fact, it seemed it wasn’t even good for sleeping in, as Sherlock more often than not napped on the sofa. It had taken minimal reasoning to deduce that John would have to lure Sherlock up to his own room somehow, if this was going to work properly, if he was going to be able to thoroughly subdue his flatmate.

Sherlock sat there, stuck with his back to the uncomfortable bars, and pinned by John’s chest pressing against his. John watched with sick enjoyment as he rattled the handcuffs against the headboard, his body squirming beneath John’s hips. The man under him was snarling and writhing, trying to get John off him, all sense of reasoning gone from him; it was just a raging, fighting instinct that was left.

“Ah-ah-ah,” John tutted, his left hand drifting over Sherlock’s collarbone, over his throat, across his cheek, until he finally got a fistful of curls. He yanked Sherlock’s head forward. “Don’t want to bruise those wrists, do you?” he cooed. He sighed with a tingling thrill as he looked over the bruises that were already speckling the visible portions of the detective’s body—bruises that John had put there when Sherlock had tried to run away from him.

Sherlock swore at him, trying to shake the hand away from his head. “Get off me now or I’m going to hurt you,” he growled.

John laughed. “Hurt me?” he echoed, still not releasing his grip on Sherlock’s hair. “And how are you going to manage that one, eh Houdini?” John jostled Sherlock around with his free hand, shaking him by the shoulder like a cruel bully; that’s what he’d become, after lusting for his flatmate for weeks and months on end with no reward in sight. If his advances were just to be spurned again and again, John saw no point in remaining a passive sod yearning after a man too ungrateful to appreciate his affection. Sherlock had forced him to do something, just as he had done countless times with manipulation and fierceness and control; for the first time in their relationship, John was going to force Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to be moving away from behaving like an angry trapped animal and was close to an almost abstract worry. “You don’t want to do this,” he warned, no longer fighting against John’s hands or the legs straddling him and squeezing his hips tightly. He shuddered as John’s hand relaxed and began to softly ruffle his curls, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s face. “Let me go, John,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Let me go before this goes too far.”

John deliberately ignored him, frowning at Sherlock’s attire. “I wish you hadn’t already gotten ready for bed,” he lamented, hands moving to splay across the other man’s chest muscles. “It would have been a lot easier to undress you if you’d still been wearing your button down shirt.”

Shrugging with resignation, John leaned to the side and picked up a pair of shears from the bedside table. He chuckled silently when Sherlock tensed up. “I’ll only cut you if you move,” he promised, placing a feather-light kiss to one of Sherlock’s eyelids. Sherlock began to take shallow breaths as John cut apart his grey-blue t-shirt. It only took the surgeon three strategic snips before he was able to rip the fabric away from Sherlock’s body. He smiled devilishly.

Sherlock’s striped pyjama bottoms were the next to go, tugged over those sharp, narrow hips and down his thighs, the drawstrings retracting as John stretched the waist. John was suddenly delighted. “No pants?” he said thoughtfully. “Naughty boy.” The bottoms soon joined the tattered shirt on the floor, carelessly tossed aside as John admired the detective’s cock, which rested at half-mast, unable to decide if it was aroused or not so far.

John would help with that.

Sherlock’s lip was bitten between his teeth and he stared at a spot just over John’s head, no longer reacting to the situation; he was retreating to his mind palace. John noticed immediately. “I’m offended, Sherlock,” he said, halfway certain that Sherlock wasn’t even listening. “It’s almost like you haven’t been dying for this to happen.” He climbed off the bed to retrieve a few things he might need, setting everything on the bed so he wouldn’t have to leave Sherlock unattended again. He needn’t have worried; Sherlock still stared at some random spot on the wall, pretending he was somewhere else.

“Time to come back,” John said. He straddled Sherlock’s lap again, briefly rutting his clothed cock against Sherlock’s naked form and sighing with anticipation. John began twisting Sherlock’s nipples between his fingers, rubbing them until they were hard little outcroppings poking out from his chest. He continued to swirl a finger around one of them while bothering with a set of nipples clamps with his free hand. John worked the hinges of the clamps a few times experimentally—he’d never tried them out personally, but had always been intrigued—then allowed the rubber jaws to bite down on Sherlock’s still-pert nipple.

Sherlock immediately twisted his body to the side, unable to stay detached any longer. His eyes screwed shut as he tried to adjust to the pain. He swore and growled while John played with the chain which was attached to both of the pincers. When he saw the other clamp, Sherlock gritted his teeth and cringed, which gave John incentive to draw his anticipation out a little. John thumped Sherlock’s nipple, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth with complete investment in his game.

Sherlock was starting to pant, eyes wide with fear as it seemed that his situation was becoming clear to him: John could do anything he liked to Sherlock. The doctor finally clamped the other nipple and let the chain hang between them, adding more pressure and more pain. Sherlock whined at this, his shoulders shifting as he tried in vain to relieve the discomfort. John gave the chain a nice tug, stretching Sherlock’s nipples and watching with fascination as the detective writhed and groaned.

John gave a couple of taps to Sherlock’s cheek with his open palm. “That’ll keep you grounded for me, eh, Sherlock?” he said fondly. Sherlock simply glared in response.

John hummed thoughtfully as he rummaged through the other items on his bed, trying to decide what he wanted to do next—because it was all about what John wanted now. Sherlock’s opinions could go hang. With barely a hesitation, John took the piece of long, dark cloth and wrapped it around Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock tried to pull away because, of course, he didn’t want to be bereft of his sight, but fortunately for John, there was nowhere for Sherlock to pull away to. The blindfold was tied on tighter than necessary, just to punish Sherlock for resisting.

The detective looked ready to panic. “John, please,” --oh, God, he’s actually begging--, “let me go now. If you set me free now…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to cite an incentive for letting him go.

John’s lips curled into a malicious smirk. “Poor little genius,” he simpered, “stupefied by a pair of nip clamps.”

Sherlock’s expression faulted, an amused smile breaking free from his façade. John pressed his lips together, glad that Sherlock couldn’t see his own break from character. You silly tit, I told you my bad guy talk was going to make you laugh. Gaining back his control quickly, John slapped the other man hard, turning his head with the force. “Enjoying this, Sherlock? You’re more than a bit sick.”

John tugged on the chain again, pulling on it like it was a lamp pull and John was a little child endlessly amused by the light flickering on and off. Sherlock’s tiny grin dissolved on his face and he grunted a few times while John toyed with him. John’s smile broadened when he pulled hard enough to yank the clamp straight off Sherlock’s right nipple and Sherlock gave a rather sharpish yelp, hands curling into fists as he handled the agony it must have brought. John shoved two fingers into Sherlock’s open mouth, pressing down the wide, flat tongue, rubbing against the muscle and forcing Sherlock to taste him.

“If you bite me,” John warned, his voice frighteningly serious, “I will attach one of these clamps to your tongue and the other one to your cock.” Sherlock’s mouth stayed pliant and open after that, John’s fingers exploring and swirling. “Get them nice and wet, now,” he suggested. “They’re about to be inside you.”

Sherlock whimpered, bless him, and John held his fingers steady while the detective laved at them desperately, doing just as John had told him. “Good boy,” John murmured, removing his fingers at last. He kneed Sherlock’s legs apart roughly, eliciting more beautiful sounds of fear and pain from the captive man. John watched Sherlock’s face closely, just gagging to see his reaction, as he slowly pressed his two fingers between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock writhed and pulled at the handcuffs again, helpless to stop John from spreading him open, breaching his entrance with only the quickly evaporating saliva for lube. John skulked forward, pressing against Sherlock’s chest, lips touching Sherlock’s ear and whispering sadistic things to him. His fingers slipped inside easily and John slowly, slowly stretched his victim until he’d buried his two fingers there. Sherlock keened and kept trying to pull away from John’s breathy whispers, so John snatched a handful of his hair and held him against the backboard.

“You’re not getting away, Sherlock,” he growled. “You’re going to open up and get fucked.” John scissored his fingers, twisted them side to side, pulled them out and pushed them back inside. He finger-fucked the detective for several seconds, watching with sadistic pleasure as Sherlock’s cock hardened against his thigh.

“Good, there’s a lad.”

John pulled his hands away and began to rearrange Sherlock’s legs, preparing for the pièce de résistance. God knows he had intended to last longer, to draw out the tortures before he fucked his flatmate’s arse, but he simply couldn’t wait, his cock painfully hard and leaking pre-come. It was fine, though. He could keep tormenting Sherlock after he’d come inside him.

Sherlock desperately tried to prevent John from accessing him, his legs twisting and shoving and kicking, but John was having none of it, pressing against the backs of Sherlock’s thighs until he was folded in half and held down by John’s arm. The doctor admired the tight little arsehole he’d stretched and exposed, wanting to open it and play with it for hours, sticking parts of himself and toys inside and fucking him until Sherlock was a snivelling mess.

Sherlock was already whimpering and begging again and his distress was so thick and palpable that it made something inside John tighten with arousal. Spreading his fingers through the dark curls on Sherlock’s head, John tutted, “Don’t make too much noise. Can’t have anyone hearing you, can we?”

“John, don’t,” Sherlock cried, “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want this, please.”

John shoved his index finger back between Sherlock’s lips, past his teeth until it rested on his tongue, silencing his words. “I said quiet, Sherlock,” he said, a touch of annoyance in his tone. “Don’t make me gag that pretty mouth of yours.” John smiled maliciously as Sherlock trembled. “Besides, your body wants this. You’re hard, you’re positioned, and—“ He spit onto Sherlock’s opening. “—you’re nice and open for me.”

Sherlock screamed and John’s hand clamped down over his mouth, squeezing his cheeks brutally. “Shh-h-h-h,” he whispered. John held Sherlock’s legs in place with his shoulder while slicking his cock with lube. “You’re going to like this, Sherlock. I promise.” Biting his lip with impatience, John lined himself up with Sherlock’s tight hole, slowly sliding himself in.

He was in such a state of anticipation and hunger, he wasn’t prepared when Sherlock gave one last-ditch struggle for control. With a few jerking leg movements, the heel of Sherlock’s foot came down on John’s bad shoulder, hard. John pulled back, letting Sherlock’s legs drop to the bed and cradling his shoulder with his other arm. The pain was incredible, almost as bad as it had been at the moment he’d been shot, but different. Not sharp or like he’d been pierced by a flaming arrow, but widespread throughout his muscles and bones, blunt force jarring the old injury and sending a rush of blood into John’s ears.

He came close to blacking out, vision fading to grey for a couple of seconds, hearing fizzling out until all he heard was a dull roar and his throbbing heartbeat. He was startled by a pair of hands touching him, one at his chest and another at his back. John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock, and he blinked in surprise. Slipped the handcuffs, then.

“—okay?” He caught the end of Sherlock’s sentence. “John!” he yelled when John didn’t reply.

John shook his head slowly, trying to clear the fog and God, even that movement sent a sharp pain down his arm. “Fine, Sherlock,” he said. “M’fine.”

He abstractly felt Sherlock easing him onto his back, carefully supporting his head until it rested against his pillows. Sherlock’s hand cupped John’s cheek and when John opened his eyes again, he saw the detective biting on his bottom lip, eyes creased with worry.

“I’m seriously fine,” he repeated. “Just…give me a minute.” His eyes closed and John worked on taking deep breaths that wouldn’t move either side of his chest. He was surprised again when something vaguely damp and cool was draped over his forehead. “Sherlock?” he wondered.

“You’re sweating, John,” Sherlock explained. His voice sounded strained, almost like he was struggling to hold in tears, but surely he wasn’t about to cry. Not over this, not over John.

John was finally able to open his eyes and keep them open and focused, studying Sherlock’s face and nervous body language. The detective was clutching a small bottle of pain relievers to his chest, apparently waiting for John to recover enough that he could swallow them. A couple of pills were shaken into Sherlock’s hand and placed at John’s lips. John swallowed them dry and then felt a straw trying to poke its way inside his mouth and he swallowed some of the cool water as well.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, sounding truly upset. John got the feeling that he’d already said so several times when John hadn’t been able to hear him.

“It’s alright, Sherlock, really,” John said again. “You weren’t intending on it and we were acting out a pretty violent scene. These things happen.” John knew that he could just as easily have done something to hurt Sherlock. That would have been a disaster, surely; John would then be dealing with an injured and fussy Sherlock who would almost certainly claim he never wanted to bottom again.

“I’m getting you a heating pad,” Sherlock informed him, about to go looking through their first aid supplies in the bathroom.

“That’s fine, Sherlock,” John answered, “but next time we roleplay, let’s try to keep away from drop kicks.”

Sherlock turned to him, looking slightly less guilty. “I’ll add it to the list of limits.”


End file.
